


Just Like the Greeks

by 720418mb



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Homophobia, M/M, Modern Royalty, Secret Relationship, royalty ian, servant mickey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/720418mb/pseuds/720418mb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Royalty AU</p><p>Mickey's family have been servants to the royal family for generations. The Gallaghers are kind and just rulers and Mickey has never minded working for them - especially since he's been fucking one of the princes since he was 16 years old. Mickey wants to be able to give Ian everything he wants, but they weren't all born with the power of a royal family to protect them when their secrets came to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Temporary Roommate

Mickey Milkovich is more comfortable sleeping on the floor than in a bed. He likes the way he looks better when he has smudges of dirt on his cheeks and his hair is wildly sticking up in every direction. He doesn’t mind spending long, sweltering days working in the sun - likes the way it adds a little color to his naturally pale complexion. He likes when people look past him and don’t expect much out of him. Mickey likes that he was born a servant and that he’s going to die a servant.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself since he was seven years old and deemed fit enough to begin his work around the palace grounds for the royal family - the Gallaghers - and may God smite any man on Earth who dare speak ill of their name.

His father taught him to be this way. Taught him a good work ethic and loyalty. Also taught him how to take a beating without crying like a little bitch, so when he was twelve and dropped a serving platter, he didn’t shed a single tear when he was whipped for it.

Working as servants for the Gallaghers was what Milkoviches did best. Mickey’s father, and his father before that, and his father’s father before that, all of his brothers, his sister, all off them were known for being from a long line of servants to the royal family. And as such, the Milkoviches pretty much ran shit as far as the lowest of the low went. They still knew when to bow their heads and take a beating, but as far as servants went, the Milkoviches were known for being the strongest and most resilient of them all, earning them the respect to match it.

The status of his family among the slaves is exactly why Mickey is baffled that one of them would be stupid enough to try and steal from him.

It’s the late hours of the night, Mickey finally having finished his work for the day and washed up for bed. It had been a long day for him - longer than any of the other slaves had since he also did the majority of his father’s work - which was probably why no one expected him to still be awake.

Mickey slipped his nightshirt on and had just flicked off the lights when he heard a banging sound just outside his door. He froze, waiting a beat to see if the movement passed when he heard another bang, closer this time to his room.

On deft feet, Mickey slipped over to his bed, grabbing the bat from underneath it, and repositioned himself right beside the door, back pressed against the wall and breathing forcedly shallow and quiet.

The door is suddenly thrown open, light from the hallway bleeding into the dark room and Mickey’s eyes don’t adjust right away, so he lifts the bat above his head and hopes for the best.

“The fuck do you think you’re - oh, shit.” Mickey’s eyes adjust to the light and he finds himself poised with a baseball bat mere inches from the head of a palace guard. “Shit, sir,” Mickey quickly lowers the bat. “I’m sorry I didn’t know, I mean I thought you were an intruder.”

The guard, for what it’s worth, looks like he was pretty damn close to pissing his pants. Mickey with a baseball bat was known to have that effect on people. Luckily, he was one of the more lenient guards, less likely to punish Mickey for his almost-bashing of a royal guard. Also, Mickey was pretty sure this particular guard was terrified of him, which also worked in his favor.

“It’s, it’s fine,” Kash brushes himself off and fixes Mickey with what he probably thinks is a stern look. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Of course, sir.” Mickey can barely keep himself from rolling his eyes. “What, uh, exactly prompted this late night visit anyways?”

Kash turns behind him and pulls a woman forward by her wrist. “Servant quarters off the West wing are rodent infested. One of the maids was sneaking food back to her bed and hiding it under the mattress, so we gotta relocate everyone who was living there somewhere else. Congratulations, meet your new temporary roommate.” With that, Kash roughly shoves the woman into the room and slams the door shut behind him.

Well, this put a bit of a damper on Mickey’s good night’s sleep.

“Uh, hey,” he greets lamely after a few moments pass. The woman pushes herself up off the floor where Kash had pushed her and onto her knees. She huffs and blows her long bangs out of her face angrily.

“Hey,” she returns sardonically, accent heavy. Mickey watches as she drags her long, slender limbs up into a standing position. The woman is tall - taller than he is - and has choppy brown hair with straight bangs. Her nose is sharp, but her eyes are a soft brown. She rubs at her wrist with a sour expression and fiery eyes that she turns to look at the door, as if she could somehow look through it and burn Kash to a crisp with them.

Mickey decides he sort of likes her so far.

“So rats, huh?” He tries for conversation, figuring he wouldn’t be able to fall right asleep anyways with the adrenaline rush of almost braining a palace guard coursing through him. The woman looks at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if answering Mickey was worth her breath.

She apparently decided that he was, responding with: “The fat bitch couldn’t last the night without a midnight snack. Fucked us all over.”

Mickey nods sagely. “Fat bitches are the worst.” 

The woman actually laughs sharply at that, venturing slowly across the room so that she sat on the edge of Mickey’s bed. Mickey walked over and sat next to her. “Ya got a name?” He asks, reaching between his legs and pulling a carton of cigarettes and a lighter out from under the corner of his mattress.

The woman nods, eyes carefully following the carton of cigarettes. “Svetlana,” she says.

“Svetlana?” Mickey tries the foreign name on his tongue, cigarette between his lips as he flicks at his lighter a few times, finally lighting it after a few moments. “That’s Russian or some shit, right?” He asks after taking a deep drag. Svetlana nods.

“Russian,” she confirms, reaching out two fingers and demanding a drag of Mickey’s cigarette. He isn’t really one for sharing, but he hands it off to her anyways. “And you?” She asks once she’s got the stick between her lips.

“Mickey,” he tells her. “Milkovich,” he adds as if it’s a second nature to him. Svetlana’s eyes widen a fraction in recognition. She hands the cigarette back to Mickey.

“Good for you,” she tells him, and Mickey can’t tell if she means that or not, so he decides to just not respond. They sit in silence for a few minutes, just passing the cigarette back and forth between themselves. When it’s all burned out, Mickey wordlessly lights another and they begin again.

Mickey isn’t particularly good with people, has never really had a friend before so he’s not sure if the silence between himself and Svetlana is awkward or not. It feels comfortable enough, but Mickey’s feeling friendly tonight, so he strikes up more conversation with her.

“What do you do around here, anyways?” Svetlana tilts her head to the side, considering how to answer.

“Laundry. I wash clothes and sheets, then hang clothes up and make beds. They tried me in kitchen once, but I am shit cook.” Mickey snorts and she whacks him on the back of the head.

“Fuck, ouch!”

Svetlana takes a drag of the cigarette. “Off the record, though?” She continues, looking up at the ceiling with a small grin tugging at her lips. “Off the record, my job is not laundry.”

Now she’s got Mickey’s attention. “Oh, no?”

Svetlana shakes her head, ghost of a grin still playing across her face. “No, not laundry. My real job is companion.”

Mickey whistles low and she smacks him on the arm this time. “Fuck, lady! Anyone ever tell you that you got anger issues?” Svetlana rolls her eyes and Mickey rubs at his arm. “So, a companion, huh? Who for?” Svetlana’s grin returns full-force.

“Sir Kevin and Lady Veronica,” she answers, tone tinged with pride. And honestly, who could blame her? That shit was definitely something to be proud of. Sir Kevin was the head of the military, one of the most respected generals to serve the Gallaghers in decades, and his wife, Lady Veronica, was one of the royal family’s most trusted advisors. That shit was definitely something to brag about.

“No shit?” Mickey asks. Svetlana shakes her head.

“No shit.” She beams. “Sir Kev and Lady Vee are…adventurous in bed, to say the least. They invite me to sleep with them, play with them. I add excitement for them.”

“Well, damn. You go, ‘lana.”

“‘Lana?’”

“It’s called a nickname.” Mickey waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll explain later.”

Svetlana nods, confused expression still on her face. “So, what about you? What is your job? Milkoviches are supposed to be masters of trade, no? What is your skill then, little Milkovich?”

Mickey chuckles and decides to ignore the “little” comment, mainly because he didn’t need Svetlana going toe to toe with him and looking down her pointed little nose in triumph. 

“On the record, or off?” He asks with a smirk. Svetlana considers it for a moment.

“Both,” she requests, turning towards him with eyes dancing with excitement.

“Well, on the record,” Mickey begins. “I’m a stable hand.”

“The Horse Whisperer,” Svetlana concludes, with a half smile. 

“Yeah, sure, dumb fucking nickname, but yeah that’s me.”

“And off the record?” She prompts, scooting closer to him on the bed.

“Off the record, I’m fucking someone pretty high up on the food chain.”

Svetlana squeals in excitement and grabs at Mickey’s arm. “You must tell me!” She demands, tugging at him. Mickey shrugs her off, cigarette balancing between his lips.

“Cool it, bitch, I’m gonna drop my cig and burn this place to the ground and then neither of us will have a place to sleep tonight! Besides,” he continues, grabbing the cigarette between two fingers and taking a pull before snuffing it out on the small bowl he uses as an ashtray. “I can’t tell you who it is.”

Svetlana gasps in theatrical outrage. “Bullshit!” She declares. “I told you, now you must tell me.”

Mickey shrugs, “Can’t, the person I’m sleeping with is a little higher up than Sir Kev and Lady Vee, so…” he trails off casually. Svetlana’s brows draw together and she sits up straighter, a haughty pout on her lips.

“That’s impossible,” she declares. “The only people higher up than Kev and Vee are the -“ Mickey watches in amusement as Svetlana’s eyes grow wider and wider in realization. “The…royal…family…” She finishes dumbly, staring at Mickey with a shocked expression. “No fucking way,” she breathes.

“Yes fucking way,” Mickey smirks. Svetlana grabs at his arm again, this time even more aggressively.

“Now you must tell me!” She begs. Mickey tilts his chin up and away.

“Not happening, bitch.”

Svetlana pauses and thinks for a moment. “If I guess it, will you tell me?” She pleads. Mickey pretends to think about it before nodding his head slowly, almost laughing at the way Svetlana’s eyes light up.

“Okay well, it’s obviously not the oldest one.” She starts. “Princess Fiona would sooner have your head on a platter than your dick in her body.” Mickey opens his mouth to protest before realizing that it was probably true, so he just shuts his mouth and lets Svetlana continue.

“So if it is not Princess Fiona…” She gasps. “Princess Deborah! She is much too young for you.”

“She goes by Debbie,” Mickey corrects her. Svetlana glares and smacks him on the arm and Mickey flinches away.

“Fuck, ouch! Again!” He cries. 

“She is only a child!” Svetlana shouts at him, smacking him over and over.

“I’m not fucking Debbie! Get the fuck off of me you crazy bitch!” Mickey ducks away from Svetlana’s smacking palms and scratching nails. Her attacks slow and Svetlana sits back, head tilted curiously.

“You are not sleeping with Princess Fiona, or Princess Debbie.” She says carefully. 

“Nope,” Mickey agrees, popping the ‘p’. Svetlana lets a small grin sneak its way onto her lips.

“So the gentleman prefers the company of another gentleman?” She teases. Mickey feels the tips of his ears get hot.

“Yeah, the gentleman fucking does. Got a problem with that?” He barks defensively. Svetlana just keeps grinning.

“Not at all. I enjoy the company of both Sir Kev and Lady Vee equally,” she admits, and Mickey feels the tension in his gut unravel, thankful that he hadn’t pegged her wrong and gotten himself into a conversation he shouldn't have.

“Well, then let us see which prince is must be.” Svetlana purses her lips thoughtfully. “It is not the youngest one, obviously. Prince Liam is hardly old enough to use the toilet by himself, let alone enjoy taking dick.” Mickey makes a sound of agreement. “And it is not the middle prince, I assume, since I would guess Prince Carl would enjoy the company of a woodland creature more than your own. So, the oldest one then? Prince Phillip? It makes sense,” she shrugs. “I hear he is fiery, clever, very quick-witted and will not listen to rule of others. I hear of him the same that I hear of you.” She concludes.

Mickey smirks, letting Svetlana revel in her ‘success’ for a moment. “It’s not Lip.” 

Svetlana frowns. “Like fuck it isn’t. Who else could it be? You claimed to be sleeping with a royal!”

“I am,” Mickey agrees easily, enjoying the frustrated tug of Svetlana’s lips.

“There is not other - oh!” Svetlana cries. “The middle boy, the older one with the red hair! I had completely forgotten about him…”

“Most people usually do.” Which was exactly what made things between them work so easily.

“That’s him then?” Svetlana confirms, suspicion showing through the narrowing of her brows.

“That’s him.” Mickey confirms.

“Hm, I would not have guessed that.”

“Oh yeah? Why the fuck is that?”

“He just doesn’t really seem like your type. I hear he is reserved, keeps much to himself. Ian, isn’t it? Ian stirs up no trouble, as you enjoy doing. He stays in the shadows, mostly reads and spends time with his horses in the -“ Svetlana’s face drains of color and she slows turns her head to look at Mickey. “In the stables. They say he spends most of his time in the stables.”

Mickey just nods in agreement.

“My god. You are fucking a royal.”

“Yes I fucking am,” Mickey grins. He looks over at the clock and stands, stretching his arms over his head, before going in search of his shoes. “Y’know, Svetlana,” he starts casually, slipping his feet into his shoes and bending down to lace them up. “You’re pretty damn lucky you got me as a temporary roommate.”

“Oh, really? Why?”

Just then there’s three sharp knocks on the door before it swings open and a guard enters without waiting to be let in. He locks eyes with Mickey and mechanically recites his line: “Milkovich,” he greets. “Prince Ian, requests your, uh,” the guard looks over at Svetlana cautiously before continuing. “Prince Ian requests your presence immediately.”

Mickey stands up from tying his shoes and walks over to Svetlana with a wicked grin. “Because you’ll get the bed all to yourself. I never sleep in it.” He answers her question. And with that, he reaches past her to grab his jacket off the bed and pulls it on, reveling in the stunned look on her face before heading towards the door.

“Alright Tommy, let’s fucking do this,” he claps Tommy firmly on the shoulder and the guard rolls his eyes, but follows Mickey anyways, the familiar sound of their footsteps leading down dark corridors leading to promise in the dead of night a comforting sound to his ears.

Yeah, Mickey Milkovich fucking loves his job. But it has fuck all to do with anything that his dad taught him, and absolutely everything to do with the tall, broad shouldered boy with the fiery red hair and dazzling green eyes waiting for him at the end of the hall.


	2. Cartoons and Baby Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey isn't very good at expressing himself, so it's a good thing Mandy can read his mind, and a new life is brought into the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the response to this story was so good, I could hardly wait to post another chapter!! There were a few questions about why Mickey was willing to tell Svetlana about him and Ian, so I wanted to address that in this chapter to try and clear things up for you guys!
> 
> Enjoy!

Mickey has no problem admitting to himself that he enjoys fucking men more than women. It’s a physical response, brain chemicals and some shit that he can’t control. Long hair and soft breasts just never did it for him like big hands and a hard body. So yeah, Mickey got off easier to the thought of a man than a woman. Which was fine, really, wasn’t even uncommon. Plenty of men in the court took male lovers, it reduced the risk of bastard children, so Ian fucking Mickey was hardly some big anomaly to be heard of.

Still, Mickey wasn’t really sure why he had told Svetlana about them. Before last night, his younger sister Mandy was the only other person who knew about him and Ian (besides Tommy, of course). But for years, it had been bubbling up inside of him and something about Svetlana’s excitement and honesty about herself made it easy for Mickey to let her in on a sliver of his secret.

There had been something so freeing about it, though. Telling someone his greatest vulnerability and having it be met with acceptance. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just had a feeling that Svetlana was the kind of person who wouldn’t judge him for what he liked and who he did (it probably had something to do with the fact that she was a Russian whore who was practically in the same boat as him).

He trusted Svetlana to keep his secret even though he barely knew her. It was a sort of camaraderie thing among the servants - you didn’t throw each other to the wolves because you could always be next. Even if she did, Mickey had dirt on her, as well, which was one of the main reasons he trusted her enough to tell her. If she was going to turn against him, she wouldn’t have revealed her own secrets as well.

They both just didn’t really know what it was like to have a friend, so at the first chance, they formed the strongest bond of all - secrets.

It wasn’t even like it was some big deal (even though to Mickey it was everything). Plenty of servants attended to the sexual needs of members of the high court. Many of them were even partners of the same sex. Mickey laying with a Prince, although a semi-big deal because of Ian’s status, was really nothing more than gossip.

But there were some things he didn’t tell Svetlana. He only told her that he was fucking Ian. He didn’t tell her anything else that went on between them because honestly, he wasn’t sure he could put it into words if he tried, moments he could never explain.

Moments like this.

Sunlight bleeding into the room through a spall space in the curtains of Ian’s room, Mickey raised his hands up to his face and rubbed the sleep of of his eyes, arching his back to stretch and feeling the familiar ache and burn in his thighs that he loved so much.

He rolled over onto his side and found Ian laying next to him, arms stretched behind his head and looking at Mickey with a smirk. Ian was always an early riser and Mickey found it extremely unnerving at first, always worried that he would do something embarrassing in his sleep like drool or pick his nose or talk about Ian’s dick or something like that. After a while though, Mickey came to realize that he must not be doing anything too horrifying, because he woke up to Ian looking at him with that small smile on his face almost every damn morning.

“You’re a fuckin’ creep, Gallagher,” Mickey grumbled, voice still scratchy with sleep. Ian just laughs, low and rumbling and warm and turns to face Mickey more fully.

“Wasn’t sure what time you’d actually be up this morning after last night,” he teases, with a smug grin. Mickey rolls his eyes and pushes at Ian’s shoulder so he falls onto his back. Ian just chuckles and lays there, tucking an arm behind his head and looking at the ceiling. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that,” he declares.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to say the same, but my ass disagrees this morning,” Mickey flops onto his stomach to punctuate his point, as if his ass is too sore to even be slept on. Ian grins and pops up with far too much energy for this time of morning, swinging one leg over Mickey’s body and straddling him, sitting down on his upper thighs.

“ _Ngh_ , fuck, no way you giant puppy, get off me!” Mickey protests as soon as he realizes what Ian is doing.

“A massage!” Ian declares from somewhere above and behind him, large palms already spread across Mickey’s backside. Mickey has to admit, Ian was a comfortable weight settled on him, and the idea of the prince massaging his ass was a _very_ good one. But then, Ian’s fingers begin digging in and the sharp pain of it has Mickey writhing in pain, face buried in the pillow to muffled his shouts of pain.

“ _Fuck_ , that fucking hurts you fucker!” Mickey turns his head out of the pillow to shout at Ian. Ian just yelps apologies and rolls off of Mickey, pulling the sheets up to cover his naked lower half.

He snuggles up to Mickey until they’re practically nose to nose, smiling guiltily. “Sorry, Mick.”

This close up, Ian’s eyes are dazzling pools of emerald green that any person, male or female, would be helpless to lose themselves in. In the sunlight, his milky skin seems to glow, and the light brown freckles forming constellations across his nose and sharp cheekbones are more prominent. Mickey wants to lay there forever, just drinking in the sight of Ian. He wants to lean forward and kiss him until he drowns.

Mickey just pushes a stray piece of orange hair off of Ian’s forehead and tells him: “You have morning breath.”

Ian laughs good-naturedly, all too used to Mickey’s sour moods in the morning and odd ways of showing affections to be put off by it, and smacks a wet kiss on Mickey’s cheek before rolling off the bed and heading towards the bathroom, presumably to brush his teeth.

Mickey heaves a deep sigh, still feeling a bit lightheaded from Ian’s beauty catching him off guard (for probably the seven hundredth time in his life) and then rolls off the bed as well. He’s just put on his nightshirt and smoothed out his hair and is tugging on his boots when Ian walks out of the bathroom. He frowns when he sees Mickey.

“What are you doing?”

“Um,” Mickey looks down at his fingers wrapped in his laces and back up at Ian. “Going to get ready for work? Like I do every morning?”

Ian flops down on the bed next to him and wraps his long fingers around Mickey’s elbow. “But it’s Saturday,” he pouts.

“Very good, Ian. Looks like all those fancy prince classes are paying off after all,” Mickey teases. 

“Jerk,” Ian comments, fingers digging into the soft flesh inside Mickey’s elbow a little bit deeper for a brief second in retaliation. “On Saturday morning they play reruns of old cartoons on TV,” Ian says it as if it’s supposed to mean something to Mickey.

It doesn’t.

“Cartoons?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah!” Ian exclaims, eyes lighting up like a child. “You know, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck - maybe even some Johnny Bravo if we’re lucky!”

Mickey just keeps looking at Ian with a blank expression until the other man finally seems to get it. 

“You - you’ve never seen a cartoon?” He asks incredulously. Mickey feels the tips of his ears get hot with shame and indignation.

“Didn’t exactly have a TV to watch it on, now did I?” Mickey snaps, tugging his laces one final time and standing abruptly. He knew Ian didn’t mean to offend him, but sometimes the other boy could…forget, be oblivious to the way other people were raised.

“Hey, Mick, no,” Ian jumps up and quickly follows after him, catching Mickey by the wrist and turning him around to face him. Mickey would never admit out loud how much he liked having to tilt his head back to look up into Ian’s face. “I didn’t mean it like that, Mick, you know I didn’t.” He murmurs it so sincerely, eyes looking so earnest that Mickey knows he could never believe otherwise.

“Yeah… Yeah, I know.” Ian tilts his head to the side and smiles down at Mickey. Then, he drops a small kiss onto Mickey’s forehead and walks over to his dresser to tug on a pair of boxers. Mickey watches Ian’s long, lean legs step into the material, the way the elastic stretches around Ian’s waist and the contrast of the dark blue boxers against Ian’s porcelain skin.

“So?” Ian says suddenly, breaking Mickey out of his trance.

“So, what?” He responds dumbly. Ian sighs fondly and stretches back out on the bed. 

“ _So_ , do you wanna stay with me and watch cartoons?”

“Oh, um,” Mickey pauses, not sure what to say, so he just blurts out the truth. “No.”

“No?” Ian repeats with a frown tugging at his pink lips. Mickey hates to see that, so he quickly backtracks.

“No! I mean, fuck, I gotta go to work, y’know?” Ian just shrugs his shoulders.

“I’ll get you out of it,” he offers. “I can just tell your boss that I needed you here at the palace for some random job, I don’t know, I’ll make something up.” Ian waves a careless hand and fuck, Mickey really wishes it were that easy.

“We can’t - Ian, people will talk. If you start taking me out of work to come play house with you, people are gonna start guessing something’s up with us, okay?” Mickey desperately tries to make Ian understand. The pout on Ian’s lips tells him that it’s not quite working.

“So?” Ian demands to know. 

_So, I’ll be beaten, probably to death, by some of the other servants who I know don’t take too kindly to men who take it up the ass._

_So, if those guys don’t kill me, my own father will._

_So, I could lose my job, tarnish my family’s reputation, and make it look like the only reason we got to where we are is because I was sleeping with you._

_So, they could hurt you for it, too. They could hurt you, Ian, and I wouldn’t be able to bear it._

Mickey wishes he could live in Ian’s world where people finding out their secret would be no big deal. But unfortunately, he and Ian seemed to be living in completely different galaxies some days.

“I just, I really gotta go to work, Ian,” Mickey says instead of anything he’s actually thinking. Ian’s crestfallen face is probably the worst thing Mickey has ever seen, so quickly he adds: “It’s Rosie, y’know the old mare that you and Debbie used to ride together? She’s due to have her foal today, and I don’t trust any of those fucktards working in the other stables to fill in and do it for me, so I, uh, I’m doing it. Myself. Today.”

“Oh.” Ian doesn’t look any less disappointed. 

“You, uh,” Mickey scuffs the toe of his boot into the ground. “You wanna come by later and help me out? ‘Round noon?” 

The brilliant grin that Mickey gets in return is worth the whole goddamn world.

 

XXXXXX

 

Mickey wipes a drop of sweat from his brow and glares up at the ruthlessly beating sun as he heads from Ian’s room back to his own to get dressed and ready to start the work day. The days were longer - had been for a few weeks now. It was the hottest time of year and Mickey absolutely hated it. He couldn’t stand the annoying slide of sweat beads down his back or the putrid smell of the stables on particularly humid days. But the nights were getting crisper now, it would be autumn soon. 

Mickey didn’t like to call things his “favorites” because it made it seem like he genuinely liked something an excessive amount, but if he had to pick a favorite season, it would be autumn. With that idea in the back of his mind, and the idea of seeing Ian in a few hours, Mickey found himself in an unusually good mood as he approached the servant’s quarters and walked down the hall to his room.

His room was one of the last rooms in the corner. It was more private than most and definitely bigger than the standard size. It paid to be a Milkovich some days. 

Mickey slid his key into the lock and opened the door to his room. His generously good mood was stamped out like a day old campfire.

Sitting in the middle of his bed were two all too familiar looking brunettes, one with icy blue eyes that matched his own, and one with whiskey brown eyes.

Mandy, with her choppy dark hair, sat with her legs crossed and her back to the door. Svetlana sat opposite her, legs hanging off the bed and knees crossed. She looked up when she heard Mickey come in, prompting Mandy to look over her shoulder towards him as well.

She raised hey arched eyebrows and shot Mickey a shit-eating grin. “Heya, Mick.”

“Hello, Mickey,” Svetlana echoed.

“Ah, fuck.”

 

XXXXXX

 

“So… She lives with you now?” Mandy trails ahead of Mickey, laying out seed across the field.

“Yep.” Mickey pushes the wheelbarrow behind her, tossing her new bags of seed when she runs out.

Normally, it was a one person job: push the wheelbarrow, sow the seed, pick up and keep moving on, so on and so forth until the entire acre of land was finished. That one person was supposed to be Terry Milkovich, but the old deadbeat had a knack for threatening and beating his children into doing whatever the fuck he wanted them to. So, while Terry napped on his fat ass, Mickey and Mandy woke up extra early to finish his part of the work before going off and doing their own jobs.

It wasn’t as bad, really, when the both of them split the work and did it together. But then again, they shouldn’t have been doing it at all. Mickey hated his fucking dad every second that he shouldered his work for him, but he had to admit, a nagging part in the back of his mind was sort of glad for it. 

Mickey and Mandy, even though they were family, didn’t cross paths very often. Mickey spent his days in the stables and his nights in Ian’s room, and Mandy was a wet nurse, so God fucking knows Mickey never crossed _her_ path when she was working. It was only when doing Terry’s job  that Mandy and Mickey were ever actually together, and while Mandy could be a total pain in his ass sometimes, she was also kind of like his best friend. Or whatever.

Mandy laughs and digs a seed into the ground with the toe of her boot. “How very Will & Grace of you two.”

Mickey frowns and shifts his grip on the wheelbarrow, wincing as the rough wood rubs against his blisters. “Who the fuck is Will?”

Mandy scoffs. “Jesus Mickey, have you ever heard of TV? It’s a show.”

“What the fuck is up with everyone and fucking TV’s today!” Mickey groans. “Where the fuck did you get a TV anyways?”

“There’s one in the common room of the Main House. You would know that if you, y’know, could actually stand being around people or being a part of a community, ever.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” Mickey nudges the side of her leg with the wheelbarrow. Mandy throws him an unimpressed look over her shoulder.

“Who else was talking about TV with you?” She asks, innocently enough.

“Fucking Gallagher,” Mickey admits, trying to sound annoyed instead of fond. “Wanted me to skip work today and watch fucking cartoons with him all day. Can you believe that shit?” 

Mandy throws a sly grin over her shoulder at her brother. “Wanted you to stay in bed with him and cuddle, huh?”

Mickey refused to admit the way his stomach rolled at her words. “Fuck off,” he grumbles.

“Oh, come on, Mick! He wanted to lounge around in bed all day with you like an actual couple!”

“Not a couple,” Mickey huffs, grateful that Mandy was walking ahead of him and couldn’t see the wicked blush that was probably glaringly evident on his face right now.

“Not yet, but he wants you to be,” Mandy calls in a singsong voice.

“We’re not a fucking couple!” Mickey suddenly explodes, just wishing Mandy would drop the fucking subject. Now, Mandy stops walking and turns around to face him. Mickey hopes his red face could now be attributed to anger.

“You don’t have to get so angry about it,” Mandy says, carefully approaching him. 

“‘m not angry, just don’t see the point in talking about this stupid shit.”

“It’s not stupid, Mickey. Ian really likes you and you’re a complete fucking idiot if you can’t see that.”

“Well it doesn’t fucking matter, now does it? Who the fuck cares if he likes me? Not the King, and definitely not Dad. We fuck, we hide it, we lie - it’s just what we do. Ain’t nobody putting on a white wedding dress around here anytime soon, so just drop it, okay Mands?” Mickey was breathing heavily now, his chest constricting with every horrible word he pushed out. It didn’t matter that he always knew this deep down, it fucking sucked to finally say it out loud.

Mandy’s eyes looked so impossibly sad that Mickey had to look away. “He’s a prince, Mickey. He can basically do whatever the fuck he wants, so if he wants you to put on a fucking white dress, you’re gonna do it, and you’re gonna ask him what heels he wants you to wear with it. And the King’s such a fucking drunk he probably won’t even realize you aren’t a girl! And then you’re in Mick, and he can, he can protect you from Dad. And he would protect you, you know that Ian would.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mickey grits out.

“Yes it is! Don’t fucking let that shithead ruin your life, if you get that chance with Ian, you need to take it and you’ll be untouchable, Dad won’t be able to-“

“It doesn’t matter!” Mickey yells again. Mandy reels back, a flurry of hurt and confusion rolling across her face. Mickey takes a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter if he can’t hurt me, Mands. He’ll still hate me, and he’ll, he’ll wish I was dead and he’s still my fucking dad and I don’t want him to - Fuck.” Mickey scrubs the palms of his hands into his eyes so hard his vision starts to go fuzzy, but fuck if he’s gonna cry a single tear over Terry Milkovich. He’d rather die.

Mickey feels a small, warm hand wrap around his bicep. He slowly opens his eyes, and shocking blue ones, suddenly very close to his own come into focus. Mandy’s eyes are shining with unshed tears and she gently pulls Mickey’s hands away from his face.

“I know, Mick, I know. I’m sorry.” And Mickey doesn’t know what or who she’s apologizing for, but he’s just hit with this fucking tidal wave of affection for his sister. He gets those a lot, though he’d never tell her that. Mandy was his little sister, but she always seemed to be taking care of him and worrying about Mickey’s happiness first. 

Mickey would give both his arms to see Mandy smile for real, just once, like she did when she was a little girl.

“Come here, you fucking loser,” Mickey says instead, grabbing Mandy into a headlock and dragging her close. Mandy started screeching and laughing and pulling at the arm he had around her, but she didn’t try to pull out, only buried herself deeper into his hold. 

Mickey tucked her head under his chin (which required him pulling her down a little because why was every fucking chick around here taller than him?) and Mandy wrapped an arm around his middle tightly, still laughing wildly. Mickey wondered if later she would look back and notice the kiss he dropped onto the top of her head while she giggled and fought him.

Now that was a fucking Milkovich moment of affectionate bonding.

 

XXXXXXXXXX

 

By the time afternoon rolls around, it’s hot enough to melt a metal coin on the tin roof of the stables. Mickey’s stripped down to a white tank top with an unbuttoned flannel with the sleeves cut off over it. He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping the sweat from his brow when he senses Ian approaching him from behind.

Mickey doesn’t know what it is, but for years now, he’s just been able to tell when Ian was coming. Like he had a sixth sense for picking out the crunching gravel under Ian’s shoes, or the ability to hear his steady breathing, or smell the fancy soap and maple wood scent that was so uniquely Ian’s. But whatever it was, it kept him from being too surprised when a pair of strong hands slid over his arms, and then a pair of strong arms wound around his chest.

“Mmm,” Ian breathes against his cheek. “Stable all to ourselves, Mick. You sure know how to charm a guy. Should I take off your clothes first, or mine?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and curses his pale complexion as he fights down a blush for what has to be the tenth time that day. “Yeah, that’s real cute and all Gallagher, but could we maybe do this another time? Y’know, like when I don’t have my hand up a horse’s ass?”

Ian laughs high and clear, right up against Mickey’s ear, and unwinds himself from the other man, taking a step back and scrunching up his nose because Mickey was, in fact, elbow deep in a horse’s ass.

“Yuck,” Ian comments.

“Tell me about it. And grab me a rag from that bucket over there to wipe off the mucus and blood, would ya?” Mickey waves his free hand towards the towels in the corner of the room and Ian begins walking backwards in that direction, dancing eyes still trained on Mickey.

“Ooh, baby, talk dirty to me.” Ian waggles his eyebrows suggestively and makes kissy faces at Mickey as he saunters away backwards. Mickey wouldn’t be able to stop the laughter bubbling up inside him if he tried. 

That was something he only felt when he was with Ian - happiness welling up inside of him so much that he couldn’t stop himself from releasing it. Ian’s eyes lit up at the sound of Mickey’s laughter. Fuck if Mickey knew why, but Ian acted like it was some big fucking gift Mickey gave him every time he laughed, when giving Mickey a reason to laugh and be so happy was a gift that Ian gave to him.

“You’re a fucking dork,” Mickey tells Ian when the lanky redhead finally makes his way back over and hands Mickey the rag.

“Ah yes, but I’m your fucking dork.” Ian punctuates his statement by putting a finger under Mickey’s chin and tilting his face up so that he could press a quick kiss to his lips. Mickey bites at the corner of his bottom lip, trying desperately to keep himself from grinning too widely. Ian, clearly without the same goal in mind, was beaming down unabashed at Mickey, like he hung the moon and the stars. 

With the warm tingle of Ian’s lips still on his lips and that look on his face, Mickey forgot that there was anything wrong in the world for just a second. 

Then, Rosie let out a loud, painful sounding whinny and the spell was broken. Ian nearly jumped out of his skin, looking from Mickey down to Rosie in shock and confusion as if he had completely forgotten she was there. (He wasn’t the only one.)

“Is she okay?” He asks quickly, crouching down at her head and stroking her flank gently. Mickey just watched Ian for a moment, his soft eyes looking deep into Rosie’s and his long, gentle fingers working some kind of magic that Mickey, from firsthand experience, knew that they had.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, she’s alright. I mean, if you consider the fact that she’s about to push out 150 pounds and gangly baby horse limbs, fighting and flailing the whole way, ‘alright’, then yeah, she’s peachy.” Mickey answers, hands moving around, trying to get a good purchase on the foal. It was a fruitless effort, helping Rosie give birth was nothing less than a two person job. He looks up at Ian, who was sympathetically cooing into Rosie’s ear.

“Alright Firecrotch, put these on.” Mickey tosses the item at Ian and watches as the horrible realization unfolds across his beautiful features. He holds the rubber gloves out in front of him, pinched between two fingers as if they’d offended him.

“You can’t be serious.” He turns an incredulous look on Mickey, who just snorts and quirks his lips into a grin.

“You didn’t think I brought you here to hold her hoof and remind her to breathe, did ya? Put on the gloves and get your ass over here, I need your help.” Mickey jerks his head and beckons Ian over in a gesture that Ian never refuses. 

“You love my ass,” he says sulkily, as he makes his way over.

“Not as much as you love mine.” This draws a wicked grin to Ian’s face, and he straddles the stool next to Mickey and leans in close.

“Got that right,” he grins, giving Mickey’s thigh a sharp squeeze and making Mickey inhale a harsh breath, almost choking on it. Ian, satisfied with his handy work, turns away from Mickey and faces the task at hand.

“So, you, uh, you really want me to do this?” Ian swallowed hard and looked up at Mickey with wide, trusting eyes.

“Yes, Ian, I really want you to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Ian admits, starting to look paler than usual.

“Hey,” Mickey says gently. “You got this, Gallagher. You can do anything, you hear me? I wouldn’t let a single one of those other pricks in that castle to lay a hand on this horse because there’s no way in a million years they could do this. But, hey? Ian? Look at me, you’re okay, come on. _You? You_ can do this, I know you can. You’re different from them.” Mickey says the last part more quietly than the rest, but their effect is instantaneous. The color flushes back into Ian’s cheeks and his lips turn back up into one of those soft, sweet grins that Mickey craves so much.

“You’re too good to me, Mick,” Ian murmurs, and God, fuck if that doesn’t hurt everything in Mickey’s soul because Ian is so _wrong_ and there are so many more things Mickey would give to Ian if he could, fuck he would give Ian anything he wanted, but for now, Mickey gives him everything he can. And if that seems to be enough for Ian, then Mickey is happy enough, too.

Ian takes a few more deep breaths, eyeing the horse in front of him carefully, before looking back up at Mickey and grinning. “I can do this,” he tells Mickey.

“I know you can,” Mickey says back. “Now can we just fucking do it? Because I think Rosie is getting a little sick of us just making moon eyes at each other back here when she’s trying to have a fucking baby.”

Mickey pretends not to notice Ian gag a little as he slides his hand inside.

Thirty minutes later, and the birthing went off without a hitch. Mickey and Ian sat on opposite sides of Rosie, a small foal now flailing around in their arms between them. Mickey looked up at Ian, whose red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, but whose eyes were wide as saucers as he looked down at the new life between them.

Mickey knew the feeling, could remember the first time he felt it himself. It never got any less incredible, and now, with Ian’s fingers brushing against his and their amazed breaths mingling in the space between them, Mickey thought it got even _more_ amazing. He could practically hear the pounding of Ian’s heart, and when the other boy looked up and caught his gaze, Mickey felt his own heart stop.

Ian looked at Mickey with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, dripping in sweat and cheeks a ruddy pink and Mickey thought he’d never see anything more beautiful in his entire life. Ian’s own eyes flickered down to Mickey’s lips.

“If you fucking kiss me right now with a bloody baby horse in our hands, I’m gonna rip your fucking tongue out and feed it to the chickens.”

Ian just laughed and kissed Mickey anyways, ignoring the threat. (Or maybe deciding that it would be worth it.) 

Mickey kissed back, but only because it would’ve been a complete waste of Ian’s perfect mouth if he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, folks! Let me know what you guys thought and stay tuned for the next chapter!


	3. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this was how the Prince of a large kingdom fell for the stable boy with the dirty mouth, and vice versa (of course)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't actually intended on the backstory being so long and taking up an entire chapter but it just kinda...happened ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It starts like this:

 

When Mickey was ten, he was taken out of the palace from his job as a household servant and brought in as an apprentice to the old horse master who was in charge of the main stables. 

The Gallaghers owned five stables; there was the main stable, which was a big shining white building with sprawling columns and housing the finest bred horses on the estate, two on either side of the main stable that housed the war horses, one on the far left with the messenger horses, and one on the far right with the leisure riding and hunting horses (when he turned 15, Mickey would be given this stable to run on his own).

The old guy’s name was Gus and he had a long beard and tall brown boots and those were about the only things Mickey remembered about him, because after his first 6 months, when Gus apparently decided Mickey had gotten the hang of things pretty well, Gus made himself scare.

Mickey was left alone to do the work a lot of the time. On the rare occasion that Gus even bothered to show up, he just sat on a bay of hale and played cards with himself or napped with his hat tipped low over his eyes, grunting directions at Mickey every so often.

Mickey didn’t really mind, he liked not being so closely supervised all the time and essentially his own boss. It meant he could take breaks whenever he wanted. He was content and things went on and on in a monotonous flow, unbroken, for years.

One day, when Mickey was thirteen, he was out in the fields with the horses, feeding and grooming them, when he decided to take one of his previously mentioned breaks. The fields around the stables were so big, they met the sky on the horizon. It was impossible to see from end to end, and often times the large areas around the horses stables were used by other people for one reason or another.

On this particular day, Mickey climbed onto the rails of the wooden fence and sat on the top rung, watching as a young boy trained a few yards away. He must have been a court boy, the son of a political elite, Mickey surmised, because he was training with Sir Kevin. Sir Kevin was well known around the palace, and easily distinguishable by his long, black hair that he kept tied up on the back of his head. Sir Kevin was, they said, the best general their country had seen in a long, long time. He was a legend, and a close friend of the royal family and countless other nobles.

The court boy and Sir Kevin were sparring with blunt, wooden swords. The boy was scrawny and freckly and seemed to have absolutely no control over his skinny limbs. His hair shone like fire in the sunlight. 

Mickey watched for a while as Sir Kevin trained the boy one on one, and drill after drill, the boy ended up on his ass. Eventually, Mickey knew he had to get back to the horses (since the other boys who worked in the stable with him certainly weren’t going to lend him a hand, God forbid), so he left the redheaded boy and Sir Kevin to their training and went back to work.

The next day, that same court boy was there again, training with Sir Kevin. And from what Mickey could see, he hadn’t gotten any better. In fact, a week later, after coming and training with Sir Kevin every day, the boy was still not any better.

Mickey hadn’t meant to make it a habit, this sitting and watching the boy train, but somehow he did. Every day, when he had finished most of his work and was just letting the horses run around and get some exercise, he would find a comfortable place to sit, and he would watch. Every day.

After about three months of this, the boy got better.

Sir Kevin had him running lap after lap around the field, doing countless pushups and sword training until Mickey was sure the boy’s skinny arm would fall off. But it never did. The boy never stopped, never collapsed (threw up a few times, but kept going), and after three months of doing this routine every day, Mickey noticed considerable improvement in the boy’s fighting and overall physical being. 

The boy just kept improving, getting stronger every day. Mickey watched quietly from the sideline.

Seven months later, when Mickey was almost 14, he finally met the boy he had grown to know only from afar. Except, it wasn’t exactly the meeting Mickey would have chosen.

Some of the people living on the palace ground were the snotty, rich court boys whose only purpose in life was to be the son of someone important. This particular brand of fuckhead grated on Mickey’s nerves like no people he’d ever met (or would ever meet) in his entire life. The ones around his age were entitled, self-obsessed, and for some reason, intent on making Mickey’s life a living hell.

It started small, with them just tripping him when they passed him in the hall, or spitting wads of paper at him from across a room. Then, they began taking his things when he wasn’t looking, progressing to them stealing right off of his person, shoving him to the ground when he tried to get it back.

Mickey had always been small, and while it’s not much of a problem now in his life because he can kick some serious ass, as a kid, it really fucking sucked. Because those snotty court boys took from him and pushed him around and tormented him and there was nothing he could do, no way he could fight back. 

He was very used to this lifestyle, which is why when one day someone fought back for him, he never forgot it.

“Hey, Milkovich!” Mickey could remember the exact way the words chillingly curled down his spine with frightening accuracy. It was one of the court boys, Laurence, whose father was this person and that person’s physician. 

Mickey had just finished watching the fiery-haired boy train for the day, and was walking back through the fields to finish up his work, when he turned to find a group of five court boys following after him, matching sneers on their asshole faces.

Mickey knew running would only turn it into a chase, and he was never that strong of a runner, so he stopped, and he turned.

“The fuck do you want?” He had asked irritably, eyes darting anxiously from face to face, hoping his nerves didn’t show.

“Ugh, listen to the mouth on this boy.” Laurence made a disgusted face. “You’ve got the vocabulary of a barbarian, Milkovich. And the looks to match,” he added with a self-satisfied grin when he was met with tittering laughter from his group.

“Real fuckin’ clever, dickhead” Mickey grumbled under his breath, wanting to turn and walk away, but not wanting his back to be to the other boys.

“What was that?” Laurence demanded to know. Mickey just scowled in response, making Laurence’s features darken. “Such insolence from a lowly servant! You should speak with more respect to your superiors, you animal.” 

Looking back on it, Mickey knows it was a mistake, but he just couldn’t stop himself when he met Laurence’s words by spitting right at the other boy’s feet.

Yep. Big mistake.

Laurence’s face twisted into an ugly grimace, and he took a few quick steps closer to Mickey. Mickey thought for sure the guy was just gonna deck him like he always did, but felt all the blood drain from his face when Laurence reached to his side and produced a sword. Now, it wasn’t a big sword, nothing too fancy or sharp, but it was enough that when he swung it in Mickey’s direction, Mickey was quick to freeze.

“On your knees!” Laurence commanded, face beet red with anger and chest heaving with his harsh breathing. He had this look in his eyes, one that Mickey had seen in more than a few eyes since working at the palace. Laurence had the twisted, demented look of power-hunger in his eyes. Mickey knew what men in that state of mind were capable of.

Mickey quickly dropped to his knees.

Laurence smiled smugly, tip of his sword pushed up against Mickey’s throat and forcing him to remain absolutely still. “You like it? Was a birthday gift from a friend of my father’s who is _very_ high up in the military,” Laurence bragged. 

Mickey didn’t dare to breathe, let alone respond. Laurence didn’t like this, as his face clouded over and he scowled. “Answer me when I’m speaking to you!” Laurence shouted. Mickey swallowed hard, feeling the cold steel biting into the vulnerable flesh of his throat, and tried to force words carefully through. 

It was a pitiful attempt, no sound really making it past Mickey’s lips, and it made Laurence laugh cruelly, sword-wielding arm shaking dangerously with the movement. Mickey hadn’t really planned on dying today, but he was pretty sure it was a possibility at this point. He was so scared he couldn’t even think straight.

Laurence grinned down at him, which was even scarier than when Laurence frowned at him. He put the tip of the sword under Mickey’s chin and forced his head up. “I actually quite like you like this,” he remarked calmly. “You’re not all that bad when you keep your pretty mouth shut.” Laurence grinned again as he spoke the words carefully, and Mickey felt his blood run cold.

“It is a shame, Milkovich, to think that such a mouth would be put to waste. But I can think of other uses for it than speaking.”

The other court boys began laughing, an ugly, biting sound. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut as his brain screamed _run_ , but his body held him firmly in place. Fuck, he was so sure he was going to cry right now in front off all these fuckheads and it would only make things better for them, he knew it.

Suddenly, with his eyes still shut tightly, Mickey heard the metallic _clang_ of metal striking metal, and then the sharp pressure at his throat was gone. Mickey sucked in a deep gulp of air. 

Slowly, he pried his eyes open and found himself looking up at the back a tall, broad body in a relaxed parry stance with a sword gripped loosely in his right hand. His head blocked out most of the sun, just the tips of it peeking out around his head and making his ginger hair look as if it were actually made of the licking flames of real fire.

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than solicit sexual favors from the help?” His protector addressed the court boys with a bored sounding voice with an undeniable hard, cold undertone. 

Mickey couldn’t see the court boys faces from his spot on the ground behind the red headed boy, but he had a feeling they were all pissing their pants right about now.

“We were - we were just -“ Laurence’s voice, which was previously so scathing, was now extremely timid sounding. Mickey didn’t know who this redheaded boy was, but he must’ve had one hell of a reputation to stand so outnumbered and still scare the other boys to death. Mickey respected that.

“Oh, I know what you were ‘just’ doing. And it would be a real shame if any of your fathers had to find out what you were _‘just’_ doing, wouldn't it?” The redhead’s voice is dangerous and sharp, contrasting with his easy posture. Mickey isn’t sure what to make of this boy, who less than a year ago could barely even lift a wooden sword or run a lap, but was somehow able to garner such an enormous amount of respect and…fear?

“No!” Laurence shouts suddenly, in a plead, the other boys echoing his sentiment. “You mustn’t tell my father please, he’ll send me away from court to live with my uncle and I can’t - I won’t survive in the countryside, please your-“

“Enough!” The boy cuts off Laurence’s rambling with a sharp command. The commanding and leading easily came from him, Mickey noticed. “You are all dismissed from my presence. Don’t let me ever catch you pulling a stunt like this again. Or it _will_ be your last,” the boy promises.

Mickey has never been so equally terrified and impressed in his life. In the blink of an eye, Laurence and the court boys are gone, and it’s just him and the boy who saved him. Mickey is unprepared for the boy to finally turn around so that Mickey can really see his face close up for the first time.

Based on his temperament from just a moment before, Mickey is expecting a hardened, cold face with stormy eyes and a mouth set in a tight, firm line. That is, of course, how he would expect a boy able to strike such fear into others easily to look like.

His savior looks nothing like that.

The boy appears to be a few years younger than Mickey, though he surely stands at least a couple inches taller than him. He’s also more filled out than most boys his age would be, from the hours and days and weeks and months of his training, Mickey thinks. He has a long, lean muscular body with pale skin and a sea of freckles. His eyes are a soft, glowing green color and his pink lips are stretched into a frown that is not unkind.

“Don’t you have work to do, Milkovich?” He finally addresses Mickey. Mickey just stares dumbly up at him, still catching up with the situation, for what is apparently too long of a time because the boy then asks: “Mickey? Hey, are you okay?”

And just like that, the boy is crouched down in front of him, eyes incredibly bright in this close of a proximity. He cups the back of Mickey’s head with his hand so that his thumb is brushing lightly over the front of his throat. Mickey is about to jerk back and ask what the actual fuck that kid thought he was doing, when the boy pulls his hand away, frowning at the smear of blood he now had on his thumb. He looks back up into Mickey’s eyes and it was all suddenly too much for the young boy.

Mickey jumps to his feet like a bat out of hell, hand clamped protectively around the cut on his throat. “I’m fine. Sorry, I just, yeah I’ll get back to work now.”

Mickey turns and begins booking it back to the stables, but stops suddenly and turns back to the boy who is still crouched in the same position, watching Mickey leave with a slightly baffled expression. Mickey swallows all of his Milkovich pride. “Uh, thanks for the save, uh…” Mickey trails off.

“Ian,” the boy supplies. (Mickey doesn’t offer his own name because he realized that for some reason, Ian already knew his name, had called him by it.) 

“Thanks, Ian.”

Mickey thinks that’ll be the last thing he ever says to Ian. Mickey is very, very wrong.

 

XXXXXXX

 

Mickey meets Ian again not even a week later.

He’s just finished grooming the horse of a visiting noble to a perfect shine, when a fox comes streaking into the stables. Mickey watches with slowly unfurling horror as one by one, every horse in the stable loses their fucking marbles.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Mickey cursed under his breath, losing the reigns of the horse he was holding as it bucks wildly and begins stamping in place. Everyone else had already left for the day, leaving Mickey with the brunt of the work (as usual), so Mickey was alone in a confined space with every-growingly anxious horses - _large, thoroughbred_ anxious horses. 

Mickey caught a streak of orange weaving in and out of the stalls every so often, but he was too busy ducking and covering his own head to avoid being trampled to do anything about it. A large mare behind him lets out a terrifying whinny and rises up onto her hind legs. Mickey sees the powerful muscles shift in her chest ad she kicks her legs into the air, and sees his life flash before his eyes as her large body comes plummeting back down to earth. 

He barely registers the fact that he isn’t dead a second later, when he feels her snort hotly against his cheek.

Everything is suddenly still and quiet, the horses only letting out a few random grunts and stepping lightly in place. 

On shaky legs, Mickey stands from where he had fallen beneath the mare and looks around incredulously at the horses that had gone from a possible raging stampede to a bunch of prize-ribbon ponies in the span of about three seconds. Mickey wonders what the fuck happened to turn the tide of the situation so quickly.

He finds his answer, standing by the stable entrance with a smug grin on their face.

“Ian?” Mickey finally chokes out after a second of disbelief. Ian just grins and holds up the old, dirty horse blanket he has in his arms towards Mickey. The blanket starts squirming and there’s the muffled sound of an animal crying.

“You - you caught the fox.” Mickey stares at Ian. 

“I did,” Ian confirms, lips still quirked and eyes glimmering in the way that Mickey would come to know they always did when he was saving Mickey’s ass.

Which, to Mickey’s dismay (and pleasure) ended up happening a hell of a lot. In fact, it was almost the only way the two boys crossed paths for weeks. Mickey would find himself in one unfortunate situation or another, and Ian would just magically appear out of nowhere and save Mickey’s ass.

Mickey had found it really fucking annoying. He even accused Ian of stalking him a few times. Ian would just laugh and inform Mickey that it was a free country and he was allowed to go anywhere he pleased. He never quite denied the stalking accusations.

On one particular afternoon, Mickey found him sprinting alongside Ian away from the palace chef, who was chasing after them with a very large butcher knife. Mickey didn’t remember the exact details of the incident, but he did remember the outcome.

Ian had, in his very Ian way, shown up just in the nick of time and wrapped a large hand around Mickey’s bicep, dragging him for a few paces before Mickey finally caught up, and the two of them were on a wild chase around the enormous palace kitchen. Just when it seemed the chef would catch them, Ian tugged Mickey out a side door and they went tumbling into an alley trapped between two buildings.

Mickey hunched over, hands on his knees while he caught his breath. Ian stood panting beside him. The two boys looked up at each other, and Ian immediately dissolved into giggles. Even Mickey allowed himself a self-indulgent grin and Ian doubled over, still gasping for air.

“That was - my God, that was exhilarating!” Ian announced happily, hands clutching at his stomach as he laughed without abandon. “That sign said ‘Do Not Enter’,” Ian continued. “Don’t you know how to read?” And then he was off, laughing again and struggling for air.

Mickey was no longer smiling nor laughing. Ian, noticing the change in his demeanor, let his giggles peter out.

“No, I don’t know how to read.” Mickey told Ian, with his chin lifted slightly. He didn’t like how Ian was always showing up to save Mickey like Mickey needed him, and he certainly didn’t like Ian talking down to him just because he couldn’t read.

“Oh,” Ian said quietly, eyes wide as if the thought of it hadn’t even occurred to him. And then, as if it were the most simple thing in the world, he asked: “Want me to teach you?”

And that was that.

From then on, Mickey and Ian stopped being two boys living on opposite ends of the palace spectrum who kept coincidentally bumping into each other, and became friends who actually sought to purposely spend time with each other. It wasn’t something Mickey was used to, but it was certainly a welcome change to his previous pace of life.

Ian would show up in the stables every day after his training with Sir Kevin and teach Mickey how to read. Mickey loved every second of it. He had always wanted to know how to read, it made him feel accomplished, like he could do something. And, of course, the company wasn’t bad.

Ian was funny and kind and never took any mean thing Mickey said too seriously. He laughed like it was his fucking job, and he listened to everything Mickey said, hung on to his every word. He had bright eyes and a wide smile and a pleasant laugh. Mickey didn’t mind spending so much time with him.

At this point, Mickey was fourteen years old and Ian had informed him that he was almost thirteen.

Mickey didn’t find out who Ian was until a year later.

By the time Mickey’s fifteenth birthday was around the corner, he had learned how to read. And he was pretty fucking proud of himself, if he was being honest. No one else in his family knew how to read, and now Mickey did. That made him different from them all somehow.

Ian had been immensely proud, and started bringing in great works of literature for Mickey to digest. He also brought him court manuscripts and official documents of the courts for Mickey to read, and then Ian taught him politics. Then, he started bringing in large, leather-bound books with maps and old photographs in them, and Ian taught Mickey history. From there it was poetry, philosophy, and law.

Mickey soaked it all up like a dry sponge in a vast pool of water. It seemed endless to Mickey, all the things that Ian knew, and Mickey wanted to know all of it, too.

The day Ian had just finished teaching Mickey about the fall of Rome and was packing up his things to leave, Mandy came in to tell Mickey that their dad had passed out halfway through his work again and that she and Mickey needed to finish it.

Mandy had nearly swallowed her own tongue when she saw Ian, slipping his messenger bag with his books around his body, casual as anything. Mickey hadn’t understand the reaction, had thought it had more to do with Mickey actually spending time with another person than anything else.

But the second Ian left, Mandy had a surprisingly strong grip on his forearm, fingernails digging crescents into his skin.

“Ow Mandy, what the fuck?!” Mickey shook his little sister off, her starry eyes confusing the hell out of him.

“Oh my god, Mick! Do you _know_ him?” Mandy had asked, blue eyes darting back and forth between Mickey and the space Ian had previously occupied.

“Ian?” Mickey asked, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Yeah, so what?” Mandy’s eyebrows raised to her hairline.

“ _So what?!”_ She all but screeched. “Mickey, that’s incredible, how did you - how did you even meet him, this is so-“ Mandy stopped, jaw dropping. “Mickey do you…do you not know who that was?”

“I know who that was,” Mickey said stubbornly. “That was Ian.”

“Mickey, that was _Prince_ Ian.”

“Oh my fucking God.”

 

XXXXXXXX

 

Mickey had thought that finding out Ian was royalty would change things between them, make it awkward and that he’d have no idea what to say or do.

It turned out, all of those things were impossible when he was with Ian. The next day, their lesson had started out a bit stilted, and it hadn’t been hard for Ian to piece together why. It was clear as day that Mandy had known exactly who he was when she saw him yesterday, and of course she was going to tell Mickey.

But somewhere towards the middle of them hanging out, Ian had said something so ridiculous that Mickey laughed hard and, in a moment of distraction, called Ian “a dim-witted fucking shithead”. Ian had gone still and quiet for a second, before his face split into a huge grin and he practically glowed.

After that, Mickey never treated Ian differently because he was royalty again.

Mickey had just turned 16, and Ian was fourteen and a half when Ian came out as gay.

There wasn’t some big declaration to a crowded hall of people, it was just an offhanded comment he made to one person that day. That person had told five people, and each of those five people had told five people, and each of those five people had told ten people, and the whole fucking thing spread like wildfire until every person within a 100 mile radius knew that the King’s middle son was a homosexual.

Mickey didn’t know what he expected, maybe for Ian to have been ashamed and gone into hiding, but that day, same as every other day, Ian showed up to the stables with books and documents for Mickey to read.

But fuck, it was so distracting. All Mickey could think about was whether or not the rumor was true, he couldn’t even focus on the words dancing across the page in front of him. So somewhere in the middle of _Taming of the Shrew_ , he blurted out: “So, I heard you’re gay.”

It wasn’t exactly well-scripted or choreographed, but there it was, out in the open. Ian had looked him over with cool, careful eyes.

“Yes, I am. Is that a problem for you?”

“No - fuck, no man! Not at all! I was just, just curious, y’know? Seriously, it’s not a problem at all.”

Ian had smiled, small and shy. “Alright, then.”

“Yeah,” Mickey smiled back, a bit awkwardly. “Alright.

And then they read Shakespeare, Mickey complaining and making fun of the pompous language the whole time and Ian reading different parts with increasingly ridiculous accents.

 

XXXXXXXXXX

 

Mickey was still sixteen and Ian had just turned fifteen a few weeks ago when Mickey accidentally spiraled everything between them into motion.

“The Greeks sound pretty fucking gay,” he had commented while Ian was teaching him about the epics and philosophy of ancient Greece. Immediately, Mickey had clamped his mouth shut, wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth as he looked up at Ian horrified.

“I mean - fuck! I didn’t mean gay like, bad, like it was an insult! I just meant, I mean not that gay is an insult, I just - fuck!”

Ian has just chuckled, looking calm and nonplussed as Mickey rambled on and on.

“Mickey,” he finally put an end to the other boy’s suffering. “It’s okay. Seriously, I know what you meant. Besides, the Greeks actually were pretty fucking gay.” He had laughed.

“Wait - really?” Mickey had asked, all wide-eyed and ignorant to any portrayal of homosexuality beyond the trash that his father spewed. Ian smiled softly at that.

“Yeah, Mick, really. It was really common actually. Homosexuality was prevalent, almost the social norm, in most of the great empires.”

“No shit,” Mickey breathed. Ian’s smile grew bigger and he moved to sit closer to Mickey, ducking his head in closer to the other boy so that their faces were only inches apart. Mickey felt his heart skip a beat, but Ian just kept flipping through pages in his book, casual as ever, so Mickey thought it was probably nothing.

“In Ancient Greece they were mostly pederastic couples - y’know, an adult male and a teenage boy? But, adult male same-sex couples existed too, they were just less creepy.” Ian glanced at Mickey out of the corner of his eye for a brief second and Mickey realized that he had been looking at Ian and not at the pages he was pointing to. Ian didn’t seem to mind.

“Most portrayals included a dominant male who was bigger, stronger, and more aggressive coupled with a,” Ian broke off thoughtfully, licking at is top lip and looking over at Mickey again. “A fairer, smaller more delicate man,” Ian finished with a smirk, his long fingers curling teasingly around Mickey’s admittedly small, delicate wrist. 

Mickey flushed with - anger? Embarrassment? But didn’t break Ian’s grip on him. Ian’s eyes flashed as if this was some sort of secret message Mickey was sending him. Mickey felt a twisting in his gut as he realized what Ian thought the message was.

But still, Mickey left his wrist encircled in Ian’s grip.

“There were other types too, of course,” Ian’s gaze was now steadily flitting between the book and his hand around Mickey. “In the _Illiad_ , Homer writes about Patroclus and Achilles, who were believed by many to be lovers. But neither of them was weaker or any less of a man. They were both great warriors - it didn’t matter who they loved. It didn’t make either of them weaker.” Ian said this last part slowly, turning his head fully to look at Mickey now.

“Fuck,” Mickey had whispered, and he didn’t know why he said it, but it was the only thing his mind could come up with. Ian slowly closed the book in his lap and placed it on the ground behind him. Mickey’s brain short-circuited.

It was suddenly so warm and the air was in short supply. He must’ve looked as terrified as he felt, because Ian huffed out a soft laugh and they were so close that Mickey could feel his warm breath fan across his cheeks.

Mickey’s eyes had flitted shut for a brief moment. Fuck, it was so hard to breath.

Ian’s hand that wasn’t holding Mickey’s wrist came up to rest hesitantly on his cheek, fingers tangling gently in his hair.

Mickey pretended he didn’t know what was going to happen, but Mickey knew exactly what was going to happen. 

“You can say stop and I’ll stop,” Ian had whispered. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to because of my status or whatever, I promise I won’t be angry, I won’t do anything to punish you if you tell me to stop now. I swear it Mickey, tell me to stop.” 

Ian had sounded almost pleading. Like he wanted nothing less than for Mickey to tell him to stop, but also like he didn’t know if he could control himself if Mickey _didn’t_ say to stop.

Mickey looked into Ian’s brilliant green eyes, so sweet and earnest and trusted him so completely it felt like a blow to the chest. Then, Mickey looked down to Ian’s slightly parted lips, just centimeters away from his own, and said the two words that would change their lives forever:

“Don’t stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Hope you all enjoyed, please let me know what you're thinking!


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